


Instructed in the arts

by acaramelmacchiato



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Bossuet is a pretty good roommate, Courfeyrac has a glorious ancestral duty, M/M, and extraordinarily silly, because education, his friends are okay with helping him, something about a tapestry, totally pointless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-06
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-10 14:58:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/787343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acaramelmacchiato/pseuds/acaramelmacchiato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the kinkmeme.</p><p>“So all is not lost,” said Combeferre. “Simply take up once again the storied clarinet of Courfeyrac, remind your hand to draw a perfect circle blindfolded, walk on coals, speak to the sheep, recite the directions to Sarastro’s secret temple; whatever it is that your great family secret encourages you to do. And when you are suitably proficient, pass it on, teach all of our friends, so the knowledge will flourish and never be lost.”</p><p>To be totally clear it's about Courfeyrac sleeping with everybody.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Instructed in the arts

“My father worries for our lineage,” said Courfeyrac. There was dejection in his voice as well as surprise, and he tapped the letter on his knee. He was sitting on the steps of la Madeleine, in Combeferre’s company as they waited for Feuilly, who had taken a day’s engagement pulling ropes as they vaulted the nave. The clatter of stone rang out to the street, and the air was dusty from cut marble.   
  
“All our fathers worry,” said Combeferre. “And our uncles and grandfathers -- even our dead ancestors, I’m warned. There is a common French lineage which is greater; for which our bloodlines and even yours are tributaries, they will dry up in the first hot summer, and they will feed what is better than them.”   
  
Courfeyrac was fiddling with the broken seal, frowning at it until one half fell onto the steps below them. “My father is an understanding chap,” he said. “And almost never stern. Today he writes that his real fear is that our great family secret will be forgotten and thence lost. The trouble is, I know he’s correct, and there’s nothing I can do about it, so I wonder if I shouldn’t pretend the letter got lost in the post.”  
  
Combeferre’s eyebrows climbed, the right and then the left. “Great family secret. Let me guess. An ancient map to a hoard of untold treasure buried under the Seine. A recipe for cold smoked kippers set down by Saint Peter himself, while he was a fisherman. You are all the exiled and true line of Himiltrude?”  
  
“Nonsense,” said Courfeyrac, but he’d worked up a smile. Combeferre elbowed him playfully to keep his mood up. “No, it’s rather more mystical -- I’m afraid I’d rather not say more.”  
  
“If it’s mystical,” said Combeferre, “you must mean that it is an  _action_ , therefore I devise it is a  _skill_. If it is a skill, the only way you may lose it is by failing to practice, isn’t that so?”  
  
Courfeyrac spread his hands, briefly distracted himself with a crease in his glove, and then he agreed.   
  
“So all is not lost,” said Combeferre. “Simply take up once again the storied clarinet of Courfeyrac, remind your hand to draw a perfect circle blindfolded, walk on coals, speak to the sheep, recite the directions to Sarastro’s secret temple; whatever it is that your great family secret encourages you to do. And when you are suitably proficient, pass it on, teach all of our friends, so the knowledge will flourish and never be lost.”  
  
He was surprised to notice that Courfeyrac had turned red.   
  
“I say, are you quite alright?”  
  
Courfeyrac crumpled the letter violently in one hand. “Yes. It’s only that you’re right, of course, it’s something of a skill that my ancestors have been honored to protect, only it’s not something I can do on my own.”  
  
“You have my interest,” said Combeferre, “and I feel Feuilly has a long day coming on, if that loud crash just now was marble. What say we leave, and come for him tomorrow.”  
  
Combeferre discovered shortly thereafter, when they had gone to Courfeyrac’s apartment, that the ancient secret of the family de Courfeyrac was given voice only in strictest nakedness.   
  
“It’s been some time,” said Courfeyrac, apologizing. Then he blew on his palms and rubbed them together, like a gymnast getting ready for a particularly difficult maneuver. “Well, I’ll start when you’re ready. The family secret, as you’ve no doubt discerned, has to do with very spectacular intercourse, so if you don’t get the necktie and the waistcoat off by yourself I shall be obliged rip them off with my teeth.”  
  
Combeferre hastily unknotted his cravat and tripped over his fingers down the waistcoat buttons.   
  
“Well, that’s fine if you’re thrifty,” said Courfeyrac, moving to undo Combeferre’s cuffs. “Now, to begin. Since the origins are medieval, the character of what we are doing now is called, as with jousting,  _à la plaisance_.”  
  
“And the opposite,  _à la guerre_?”  
  
“Just so, and that method is no respecter of waistcoats.”

 

* * *

 

“Well, far be it from me to criticize someone’s ancient family what-have-you,” said Bahorel. “But in Vîmes, we generally look to a bordello for this sort of expertise, not the scions of the Second Estate. Still, I’m an excellent and unbiased judge, so let’s have it.”

“You’re not supposed to be evaluating,” Courfeyrac reminded him. “You’re just remembering, and maybe repeating on your own time.”

They were at Bahorel’s, since Bossuet was once again residing with Courfeyrac and had objected somewhat primly to encountering any of their mutual friend naked at the sink,  _even if it is in service of promising that knowledge will not be lost to a new generation, Courfeyrac, I have every sympathy and good wish for your success but there are simply some boundaries of friendship and fraternal love – I don’t think I have sufficient sanity -- I’m begging you._

“My dear sir,” said Bahorel, in an easy, teasing voice. “Everyone is  _evaluating_  when they do this.”

 

* * *

 

Feuilly had looked him up, and down, and heaved a sigh more tired than any breath of Atlas’, and beat dust from his cap against the wall, and said, “Courfeyrac, please don’t be insulted, I can choose to experience  _transcendent pleasure_  or I can get six hour’s sleep, and to be utterly candid --”

“I didn’t say experience, I said  _learn the art of_. It’s an issue of education, I can’t believe you yourself would let the matter drop so dispassionately.”

Feuilly rolled his eyes, and stopped himself putting the cap back on. “I suppose one sleepless night isn’t a total loss,” he said. “But be warned, I don’t plan to lose the rest of my nights spreading the gospel, I intend to spend them asleep.”

“Be reassured, the experience and practice are scarcely missionary. Now, at the outset. We put together  _salve_  and  _salva_  and make our greeting our first volley.”

 

Feuilly put his hat carefully on the bedpost, and kept his boots on to save time. 

 

* * *

 

Joly had a medical enthusiasm for the project, and stopped him several times to scribble something down in his notebook. 

“If you’re relying on notes,” said Courfeyrac, “you’re going to do something wrong. You’re going to go off on your own and try to replicate it and someone could lose an eye.”

“Oh, nonsense, maybe I’m just making a catalogue of sequence for when I print my one-sou chapbook in parody of  _Emile_. Maybe I’m making observational notes on anatomy. Maybe my mind is elsewhere and I’m writing something for a lecture tomorrow, you’ll never know.”

“Yes, pity I am totally illiterate. As you will be in phronesis. If this is done correctly, as it will be, you will remember without any aid.”

“It’s very unsanitary to put that in your mouth,” said Joly. “Less so in my case, but I mean when you do it with other people.”

 

* * *

 

Prouvaire insisted they try it on the floor. 

“If your knowledge is truly unique, then, it is ephemeral, it knows not of place, it relies not on comfort; I’d say let’s do it in the Jardin des Plantes if it wasn’t raining.”

“Really?” said Courfeyrac. “Just because of the rain, really?”

“Yes, of course,” said Prouvaire, shaking his head. 

 

* * *

 

Bossuet thanked him for his previous discretion and said, “Well then, I suppose let’s see what all the fuss is about.”

“It’s a very old --”

“I know, but I don’t like to think of your father doing it, and I’d rather hoped not to, so let’s say only, how interesting, Courfeyrac, that you’ve hit on the secret to perfect pleasure completely by accident and on your own, through trial and error, long after you left your ancestral home.”

“That wouldn’t be at all accurate. There is a great medieval tapestry--”

With a somewhat desperate look, Bossuet started to pry off his riding boots. 

  

* * *

 

Enjolras’s bed was something that he had known, intellectually, must exist, but the reality of it was more humble and more grand at once. He felt as if he had been allowed into the temple, even if the temple was a mid-rent apartment whose neighbors could be heard near the door. He lay with one leg hanging off that bed, looking at the ceiling, which was also not extraordinary.

“And education is a breastplate in the armor of liberty,” Enjolras continued. “You have freed knowledge from oppression and secrecy -- I commend you. We take what we know from one another, to become greater than ourselves alone. The only higher good is to share equally.”

“You mean everyone at once?”

Enjolras was sitting up and putting his waistcoat back on; he shrugged.  

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. The nave at la Madeleine was built in 1831 so uh looks like it's 1831. 
> 
> 2\. The storied clarinet of Courfeyrac is a different story. 
> 
> 3\. Bahorel is from Vîmes today.
> 
> 4\. Yes of course there is a great medieval tapestry how else do people learn??
> 
> 5\. (herps and derps into the sunset)


End file.
